


who's a heretic now?

by firelordazulas



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, clara can hear the drums!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelordazulas/pseuds/firelordazulas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s the sound of drums echoing within your head, across you endless lifetimes. The beats follow you through space, and the only time they become silent is when you first meet the ice cold eyes of The Master, when there’s only an echoing silence vibrating to the sound of your heart in your throat. Your pulse flutters. She smirks, slow and feral, and you cling harder to Danny, try and remember that she’s a Monster, that she killed a very good man and friend, the man you could have lived the rest of a normal lifetime with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who's a heretic now?

**Author's Note:**

> oKAY so the title is from which witch - florence and the machine erm this au makes literally no sense and sorry for any canon bullshit that doesn't make sense bc yeah

There’s the sound of drums echoing within your head, across you endless lifetimes. The beats follow you through space, and the only time they become silent is when you first meet the ice cold eyes of The Master, when there’s only an echoing silence vibrating to the sound of your heart in your throat. Your pulse flutters. She smirks, slow and feral, and you cling harder to Danny, try and remember that she’s a Monster, that she killed a very good man and friend, the man you could have lived the rest of a normal lifetime with. 

After, you wonder if you could’ve done it, if you could’ve vaporised her. The rage had felt like a solid force, a liquid fire mixing with the ice of your shameful attraction, but the possibilities… That tang of promise that coated your tongue from one sharp glance… She was intoxicatingly powerful, the drug you knew you shouldn’t take, the cat that kept scratching the fuck out of your favourite armchair and then presented itself for petting, immune to punishment and human rules.

When she disappears, the familiar throbbing returns, the subtle pounding that haunts your every moment louder in its resurgence, and you know this isn’t it. He does too, from the tightness around his eyes, how he communes with the TARDIS without the usual fanfare.

Her presence hovers as you hug him tightly and say goodbye, the feeling of being watched ever pervasive, the drums a cacophony you can no longer sleep through.   
When you do sleep, you dream, rushes of feelings and expressions, the sound of her laugh (cackle), the colour of her eyes, the shade of her lipstick… The smell of lavender follows you, the old fashioned scent classier, headier, when placed upon the woman in (of) your dreams.

You keep thinking you see her everywhere, in the blue of someone’s dress, a hint of purple in the corner of your eye, a particularly violent shade of pink… Any attempt at peace of mind has been shattered as you about you go about your normal life, moving to a new school where the shadows of Danny never existed, as you make new acquaintances, learn all your students’ names, start up a cookery club where you determinedly don’t make souffles. You aren’t souffle girl anymore, you aren’t even impossible, but the old nervous tics remain as you bump your wrist to the beat in your brain, start up smoking again and forget to eat until you feel as if you’re going to fall where you stand.   
The days are quiet. The nights are loud.

It’s stagnant. Time refuses to move. The world drips past as you wait for something to happen, something extraordinary…

Later, you wish that quiet hell had been your fate.

 

Your blood is roaring in your ears, pulse pounding as The Master - Missy - coalesces into being in the middle of a crowded street. The first hint had been a silence, a lacking of internal music that had come only once before. It’d taken you a moment to work out what was missing as the feeling that something was Wrong had only increased until you’d met her eyes, like an invisible string had inevitably pulled your gaze to hers. She’s dressed the same as last time, hair dishevelled in the same way as if she’s just come from one event to the other, and you take a moment to envy her, that she didn’t have to spend those long months trapped in domestic hell. Suddenly, you remember she’s appeared on a busy London street and you should probably do something about that before she kills someone.

_The Doctor’ll save me, right?_

Your mind is clear and set, planning what to say and how to say it; you’re the Queen of Bullshit but a little forward planning never hurt anyone. Affecting what’s almost a saunter, you push through the crowd until you’re a metre, 2 at most, away from the starring role in your nightmares. You set your shoulders, raise your chin, and talk fast so she can’t hear the fear in your voice. “Missy. To what do we owe the honour?”

“Oh, darling, straight to business then? Alright, I’m not one to argue.” She raises your saunter to a prowl, slinking closer until she’s only a foot away. It wouldn’t be a surprise if she started to actually circle you, and that dangerous energy paired with her coquettishly fluttering lashes makes your breath catch in your throat. “With the boys away I thought it was time us girls had some fun, hmm?”

“Somehow I don’t think whatever you’ve got planned will be fun.”

“Oh, come on, you never know until you try. And, of course, if you don’t, I’ll be forced to do something not very nice.” She draws one bright pink fingernail across the exposed flesh of her throat.

“What are you planning?”

“That’s simple, silly! I’ve decided you’re simply delicious; I’m going to keep you.”

You don’t fight as she slides one arm then another around your waist, pressing into your space, even as the proximity forces you to tip your head up to keep eye contact. You don’t look at her lips. You don’t. 

“Why, you’re shaking, my love! Cold?”

“Just being hugged by a psychopath.” You mutter under your breath.

She snickers darkly and pulls you even closer, into a proper hug. Her breath is hot on your ear. “Hold on tight...”

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah if any of it doesn't make sense it's bc i didn't watch like. any of the last 4 seasons ,,,,,,, yeah i thought i'd put that at the end of the fic so u didn't like lynch me   
> so this came from my childhood fascination with the idea of john simm's doctor hearing drums constantly, but i can't remember if that plotline was ever fixed or explained or w/e bc i haven't seen that arc since it first aired so yeah in this missy is still hearing them i guess ??? and it's almost like a form of soulmate mark. none of this makes sense i don't know like any canon doctor who lore pls forgive me
> 
> the bumping wrists is a girl, interrupted reference


End file.
